Adam Buenosayres: A Novel

by Leopoldo Marechal

  – Evenin’, replied Flores, reciprocating the gesture.

  Their hands joined cautiously. The pipsqueak Bernini winked at Del Solar and whispered enthusiastically:

  – The meeting of two great forces!

  – Hmm! mumbled Del Solar, contemplating the two locked hands.

  A commotion from the heterodox group made him turn his head. He saw Franky Amundsen pointing his index finger at the malevo Di Pasquo.

  – Get a load o’ the get-up! cried Franky, amazed and amused.

  – Whoz’t? asked Adam boozily.

  – It’s the ítalomalevo! announced Franky. A cross between the payador Gabino Ezeiza15 and la Traviata!

  Another tremendous squall of hilarity followed this announcement. Del Solar had been monitoring the situation closely, and he sensed the glimmer of surprise in the malevo’s face. Quickly, he took Pereda by the arm and ordered:

  – Slip over there and tell those bloody fools to shut up!

  Pereda obediently went over and berated the dissidents:

  – Behave yourselves, barbarians! Let’s see if you can shut your traps! Or do you want to get your arses kicked?

  The heresiarchs maintained a disdainful silence and went back to watching the manoeuvres of the enemy. At this point, the scene was arranged as follows. Di Pasquo, very serious, had just sat down next to Flores, an icy barrier apparently separating the two. Juan José was trying to open a bottle, a task apparently beyond his current abilities. Bernini, Pereda, and Del Solar had regrouped and were walking on eggs. Rivera, for his part, looked almost lifeless, so thick was his carapace of sullen silence. Turning now to the dissidents, we find that not one of them was stirring, yet all looked expectant. And this, as Del Solar realized in alarm, was even more frightening than the ruckus they’d been kicking up. Franky Amundsen, Adam Buenosayres, and the astrologer Schultz were all three staring squarely at the enemy, their heads up, their lips curled, their eyes glinting fiercely. Only Samuel’s head was bowed, deep in some cogitation that looked mighty suspicious.

  All eyes and ears were now trained on Flores and Di Pasquo, and they understood they were expected to perform. They took sidelong glances at one another, but under so much pressure to say something, neither taita nor malevo could do it, fearing a wrong word might slip out.

  – They’re scared to death of each other! Adam laughed into Franky’s ear.

  – Shh! Franky admonished. Wanna bet they kiss and hold hands?

  He said no more, for Di Pasquo was taking the initiative. Amid an absolute silence, and without looking at the taita, Di Pasquo formulated the following question:

  – So what’re you up to, my friend Flores?

  Nine pairs of ears waited anxiously for Flores’s response. They waited not in vain; the taita, more solemn than ever, gave this sublime answer:

  – As you see, my friend. Vegetating.

  Triple and unitary, massive and unstoppable, was the guffaw with which Adam, Schultz, and Franky celebrated Flores’s reply. The taita went rigid; Di Pasquo was confused. Del Solar and Pereda were aghast, Bernini dismayed. Juan José sat motionless with the defiant bottle between his thighs. The storm of laughter had not yet died away, when Samuel Tesler, shoving his chair back, stood up and raised a menacing fist.

  – Enough of this farce, already! he roared. Vaudeville malevos, papiermâché taitas, take a look at a real man! If you wanna fight, I’m ready any time!

  If only he had never said it! The challenge appeared to rouse Flores from his sluggishness. He slowly got up, as if impelled by a fatal necessity, and headed toward Tesler, his right hand hidden at his waist.

  – Don’t do it, Flores! implored the malevo.

  – It had to be! the taita rasped, sadly embarking upon the warpath.

  Juan José and Di Pasquo tried to hold Flores back, Samuel paled, and the dissidents took cover behind the table. Just when the fight seemed inevitable, however, the unexpected intervened. Rivera, who had been quietly hanging back, got to his feet, slow and dignified, silent and grave, and with a single gesture literally transfixed the combatants. Stock still in surprise they stood, one and all, as the pesado Rivera, without a peep, executed the following manoeuvre. He took a few steps and, positioning himself in front of the defiant Israelite, he stopped, crossed his right leg over his left thigh, took off his shoe, lifted it in the air and brought it down conscientiously, parsimoniously, coldly on top of Tesler’s head. Putting his shoe back on, he turned on his heels and resumed not only his seat but also his meditative attitude.

  Scarcely believing their eyes, everyone looked at Samuel, waiting for the inevitable reaction from the author of so defiant a challenge. But lo and behold! Our philosopher had gone into a state of ecstasy, and stayed like that for over a minute. Finally, he plopped himself down on a chair, buried his face in his hands, and started to laugh outrageously. His laughter, uncanny, inexplicable, choked by hiccups and belches, was for all that irresistibly contagious, and it wasn’t long before Trojans and Tyrians alike were infected. That was when Juan José tapped Del Solar on the shoulder.

  – Beat it while you can, he grunted in his ear. Lucky for you they took it as a joke. If you stay any longer, I can’t answer for what happens.

  Back-slapping, posthumous laughter, and sweet goodbyes filled the air. Del Solar was at his wits’ end as he tried to pry Samuel Tesler out of the kitchen, because the philosopher, wet-eyed and slurring his words, was swearing eternal friendship to the pesado. Bernini had less trouble in convincing Franky to go, since he’d already said goodbye to Flores, after demanding his autograph, which the taita had signed with ceremony. Schultz, for his part, meekly followed Pereda out of the house; the astrologer had got hold of the malevo Di Pasquo’s birthdate and promised to send his horoscope by return mail.

  Adam Buenosayres had already gone out to the patio, with no help at all, and had groped his way into the dark backyard of the house. The voices he’d just heard, the gestures, forms and colours, all galloped madly through his mind.

  – Absurd night! he laughed in his soul. O night of mine!

  He passed near the fig tree, paused for a moment to peer into the shadows, and heard the dog Falucho growl in his doghouse.

  – Not here, murmured Adam, perplexed.

  He took another ten steps and glimpsed, on his right, a shape unclear to the sense of sight, but not to the sense of smell.

  – The henhouse.

  He followed its wire fence until he came to a reedbed beside the wall, its black lances pointing to the sky. There he unbuttoned his fly and urinated for a long while. While his bladder was draining, he looked up to the zenith where a few stars peeped out from behind scudding clouds. As invariably happened, the rapture of his eyes was answered by a sudden upsurge in his soul. He felt the grosser element of his inebriation fall away, giving way to a foggy, melancholic awakening of his conscience.

  – Absurd night! he repeated, anxiously this time.

  He turned on his heels and, buttoning up, started to make his way back. When he got to the fig tree, he noticed an amorphous bulk hanging on a string from a branch. Touching it warily, he felt a latent, cold viscosity.

  – Live toads, he murmured. Witchcraft?

  Three identical toads came to mind, hanging from the willow tree at the family home in Maipú: three live toads that swung in the wind for three days and three nights, as a twenty-year-old woman lay dying in the garden, her yellow fingers clutching a romantic novel.

  – That’s enough! Where’re the others?

  Adam Buenosayres crossed the patio, paused at the threshold of the funeral chamber, and peered inside. In the left corner, the three Crones, amazingly similar, were asleep, fingers still clutching their rosaries of black beads. In the other corner, a woman in mourning huddled into herself as though fearing she had no right to be there. In the middle of the room, by the light of the candelabras, the deceased Juan Robles lay in his wedding suit, a lump of mud slowly crumbling to dust.

  Adam ran to
the street door, crossed the threshold, and heard voices shouting to him from the corner.

  HERE LIES JUAN ROBLES,

  MUD-STOMPER.

  THE CELESTIAL STOMPER

  IS STOMPING HIM

  BENEATH THE INVISIBLE HOOVES

  OF HIS HORSE.

  BOOK FOUR

  Chapter 1

  In the open doorway of his restaurant, Ciro Rossini – the great Ciro! – stood in deep melancholy, his eyes wandering as he spun the yarn of his autumnal thoughts. Having scrutinized the midnight sky and noticed in the east a threatening squadron of shit-coloured clouds, the proprietor of Ciro’s Gazebo said to himself in alarm:

  Wind from the east,

  rains like a beast. 1

  As though the wind wished to corroborate Ciro’s private reflexion, a treacherous gust suddenly shook the manes of the trees along the street, tearing from them a whirlwind of coppery leaves that floated in the air before fluttering to the ground like dead wings.

  – Diavolo! murmured Ciro Rossini, brushing two or three dead leaves from his hair, blackened by La Carmela lotion.

  But Ciro’s funk was given visible form when his eyes took in the empty gazebo. God in Heaven, how deserted and sad it looked! Just yesterday it had been the scene of so much summer fun. Ciro looked at the rustic booths, now silent as tombs, which only a short time before had been brimful of words and laughter. An interminable sigh deflated his amateur baritone’s thorax. His gaze next passed over the infinity of empty tables filling the outdoor patio, and came to rest at last on the bandstand, where a covered piano, a shrouded bass drum, and three violins in their coffins anounced the death of music. Then, the great Ciro, the sad Ciro, shook his head from side to side, recalling the sonorous multitude that had gathered there, night after night, under more clement skies. Where were they now, the compadritos in white neckerchiefs, the thirsty gals, the folks from the barrio in their gaily coloured summer shirts, the hefty women who laughed aloud their love for the sizzling grill? Ah! They were gone with the wind, the same wind now sweeping leaves along Triunvirato Street.

  Only five lost souls were there, still keeping the faith, and Ciro Rossini regarded them with a certain tenderness. They were the payador Tissone, Prince Charming, and the three standup comics of The Bohemians – five taciturn ghosts who hovered listlessly around the bandstand, amid the jumble of guitars and bandoneons.2

  – Poor guys! reflected Ciro. Tomorrow they’ll be working the greasy spoons for the price of coffee.

  He turned his eyes away from all that desolation, and with tragic mien gave his Carmela-blackened hair a shake. No doubt about it, autumn was definitely here, and the days of the Gazebo were numbered. But what was behind Ciro’s funereal tone? Was it the lament of Avarice gone broke, wailing because the cash register’s cheery ring would soon be silenced? No, per Bacco! Ciro Rossini, by Bacchus, the great Ciro was free of such base passions! And those who’d been been granted the incomparable pleasure of hearing him sing the arias “Una lacrima furtiva” or “Celeste Aida” would recognize that cruel destiny alone had robbed of glory a soul so sublimely inspired. What Ciro was lamenting in the depths of this autumn night was the twilight of joy. For Ciro Rossini, owner and entertainment manager of Ciro’s Gazebo, was at heart a festive genius; he worked on human joy as on a work of art. Had he been born in the halcyon days of ancient Greece, he would have organized the entourage of Dionysus or the dances of Core, the resurrected maiden.

  But the great Ciro did not dwell long on his autumnal elegy, for just as he was checking the night sky’s symptoms a second time, he felt two arms wrap around his neck and something like an enormous broad-brimmed hat almost smothering him. Amazed in the extreme, Ciro Rossini returned the embrace of the unknown person. When he finally broke free and saw the other’s face, he exclaimed with delight:

  – Carissimo!

  In the unknown traveller deposited by midnight at his threshold, he recognized his friend Adam Buenosayres. The younger man now became solemn as he turned to the group of men behind him. Pointing to Ciro, he announced:

  – Ciro Rossini, a great soul!

  Adam Buenosayres turned back to Ciro, who was looking at him reverently, and introduced his companions in this way:

  – Señor Schultz, astrologer. Señor Amundsen, globe trotter.3 Señor Tesler, Dionysian philosopher. Señor Pereda, criollosopher and grammarian. Señor Bernini, moralist, polygraph, and boxer.

  Each of the strangers in turn held out his arms to Ciro and embraced him warmly. And the great Ciro, though detecting on their breath the evidence of well-known elixirs of the spirit, did not fail to appreciate their sweet and cordial effusions, and likewise took each and every one of the men just named to his breast. Puffing for breath, he exclaimed:

  – Giovinezza! Giovinezza! 4

  They were the same travellers who earlier that night had stared into the face of terror and death. A beat-up Lacroze streetcar, every one of its screws squealing, had just brought them from the remote regions of Saavedra. They’d got off at the corner of Triunvirato and Gurruchaga, and then at the suggestion of Adam Buenosayres had come to Ciro’s Gazebo, where they stood now waiting at the entrance, their eyes still haunted by nocturnal abominations. All were there except their leader, Del Solar. (Unhappy with the conduct of the heterodox faction in a certain famous kitchen, he’d parted company.) Ciro Rossini, perceiving the invisible sign of Art on their brows, inquired at last:

  – All artists?

  – All of us, answered Adam, beaming proudly at Ciro.

  The great Ciro trembled like a noble steed of combat at the sound of the cornet, and raised his eyes heavenward:

  – Art! he sighed. Art!

  His rapture lasted only an instant. Returning to reality, he affectionately upbraided the group:

  – Santa Madonna! he cried. Why are you standing there like that? Avanti, avanti!

  His cry was a signal. Tumultuous and happy, following Ciro’s lead, the visitors irrupted into the Gazebo. Everything seemed to come alive again, even the empty booths and the weeping willow at the back, which gave its yellow locks a shake. Visibly surprised by the invasion, the five taciturn ghosts, as well as the decadent waiter setting their table by the bandstand, turned to stare in astonishment at the strangers, until Ciro, leading the troop, accosted them.

  – My artists, he declaimed, introducing the five ghosts.

  An irresistible wave of cordiality swept the visitors along: Adam, Pereda, and Schultz embraced the three members of The Bohemians, who couldn’t get over their surprise. Samuel Tesler, flush with bravery after his recent heroic experience, pumped the hand of the payador Tissone. Franky, in turn, threw his arms around Prince Charming, who, sullen yet dignified, didn’t seem too keen on Franky’s tender effusions.

  – Popular art! Adam Buenosayres exclaimed weepily, still patting his Bohemian on the back.

  – Criollo minstrel verse, thundered Pereda, not letting go of his Bohemian either. And Del Solar is missing out, the bloody fool!

  Worried and suspicious, the trio of Bohemians exchanged furtive looks. Were these jokers having them on? And, Prince Charming, after Franky’s bearhug, sensed Bernini approaching and bridled:

  – Hey! he snarled. Watch what you’re doing!

  But the great Ciro, his rapture notwithstanding, was not a man to forget his duty. He turned to his friend Buenosayres.

  – Bravissimo! he applauded. Bravissimo! Where shall I set your table?

  – What! Adam answered severely, and he indicated the five ghosts. Popular art and intellectual art have just met in an embrace. We shall eat here, at the table of these gentlemen.

  – Ecco! Ciro approved, without consulting the ghosts, who were already resigned.

  Ciro turned and shook the decadent waiter following him:

  – Subito! he cried. Put two tables together.

  Then he counted up the commensals:

  – Eleven places. Benissimo!

  – Bad number for a banquet, Schu
ltz complained.

  – True, admitted Adam with concern. Two too many for the number of Muses.

  The astrologer’s objection, apparently a trivial matter, nevertheless gave rise to a serious conflict that divided them into three factions. Schultz was obstinately refusing to sit at a table where the number of commensals exceeded the sum of the Muses. Franky Amundsen and the pipsqueak Bernini, in their own flamboyant style, said they shat, double-shat, and triple-shat on Pythagoras and every last one of his disciples. The third party included Adam Buenosayres, conciliatory; the five ghosts, gawking and slack-jawed; and Ciro Rossini, who had assumed an air of deep intelligence. Two motions were proposed to settle the dispute. Franky Amundsen’s idea, loudly rejected by the others, was that they draw straws to determine two sacrificial victims, who would be roasted on Ciro’s grill and served up to the remaining nine commensals. Adam had better luck when he suggested inviting Ciro Rossini to the table so they’d make a total of twelve, a harmonious number and, by his lights, highly significant. Schultz accepted this proposal, considering twelve to be the number of plenitude and citing as examples the twelve signs of the zodiac and the twelve deities of Mount Olympus. Harmony was promptly restored when Ciro accepted the invitation (not without protesting his absolute unworthiness for such a fabulous distinction), and they all took their seats around the table.

  It wasn’t at all difficult to select the delicacies they were to wolf down. The majority of the guests opted, with a certain over-enthusiasm, for a gigantic mixed parrillada: grilled braided chitlins, large intestine, cow’s udder, bull’s testicles, sausages à la criollo, and ribs, all to be abundantly washed down with a little Vino de la Costa, whose praises Franky sang to the skies.5 The astrologer Schultz, however, speaking for the minority, disdainfully rejected that menu worthy of Kaffirs, saying he’d be satisfied just by examining the victims’ entrails to get a read on whether or not the gods favoured the banquet. He actually got up, just like that, to head for Ciro’s kitchen before Adam Buenosayres took him by the shoulders and managed to dissuade him. That being accomplished, Adam was overcome by a fervid fit of Latinity; he turned to the great Ciro to ask if he could find two or three bottles of a certain Sicilian wine and a few of those almond-stuffed figs he’d tasted there on more than a few occasions. His national amour propre flattered, Ciro Rossini answered in the affirmative and gave the order to the dozing waiter. Ciro’s words filled Adam Buenosayres’s heart with Virgilian music; likewise, the hearts of Schultz and Pereda, who’d taken a sudden fancy to the cibus pastoris, the meal of shepherds just proposed by Adam.